


Fated to be Lone

by MitzyBlue



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Depression, Friends to Lovers, Learning to fit in, M/M, Multi, Phobias, Probably more fluff and plot that porn, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, dealing with shit, ftm character, promiscuous sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MitzyBlue/pseuds/MitzyBlue
Summary: Dylone Cosswall was okay with working maintenance in Vault 101. It wasn't perfect but but it was home.Then things changed.Left with a handful of belongings and a shattered life, Lone steps into the wasteland.[[A very slowly written Tale of Lone the Wandering Bard and those he meets along the way.]]





	1. ~08.17.73~

**Author's Note:**

> [[Author's note: Aaaah so I've been sitting on this for a while? Kinda? I'm nervous to be posting it but bits tie into my other fallout story -- I actually started writing this to get ahold of what I was doing in SSoC so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ but I love Lone who is a precious beanpole. So I'm sharing them... with you. Fun fact, I'm pretty sure Lone is the youngest protag I've written. ...Pretty sure.]]  
>  **Faceclaim/Face Reference-[Urvashi Umrao](http://mitz-terblue.tumblr.com/post/159953106080/faceclaimref-for-lone-from-my-newest-fallout-3)**

 

 

Lone stood, shivering and struggling to face the neverending sky outside the cave pathway again. He’d tried twice previously. Vertigo fuck and casadastraphobia hell welcomed him into the never ending blue. He hated to admit the the very first time he’d stepped out-- he may have puked and started crying. Probably not a good start on this shitty unwanted adventure.

Nearly twenty years in the vault. School. Work. Life. A closet-hidden fling with Butch DeLoria that somehow only intensified after Lone had clocked him. A quietly admitted crush on his father’s assistant, Jonas Palmer. A mildly starting crush on Floyd Lewis. Fake dating Amata to keep the Tunnel Snakes-- a frankly horrific gang name-- away and hide the secret romance between her and Christine Kendall. Lone had taken a lot of beatings to keep Amata’s secret but he’d never expected Amata to do the same for him.

But she had. She’d taken a bruised lip and pulled the gun Lone had refused that morning when she’d broken into his room and shook him awake. He’d heard the shots before he reached the vault prison doorway-- thin hands clutching his baseball bat as the door flew open. Blood splattered and pooled on the floor as Amata dragged him away from her father’s angry shouts. Sadly, that hadn’t been the first dead body he’d seen that day.  No, that honor had gone to Old Lady Palmer and the living nightmare when a radroach--

No. He cut off that line of thought and swallowed down the bile that wanted to rise at the memory. He’d never had much of an issue with the bugs before that. Radroaches occasionally popped up in the reactor room but they were never a _serious_ issue. If he was honest, he’d been a little terrified when Butch had asked him to help but that was only because everything was going so very wrong so very fast. No BB pellets for his childhood gun-- he’d been forced to just using the bat. Stomp. Smack. Dragging Ms DeLoria back and shoving her towards Butch before swinging for the last bug.

Butch had actually been NICE afterwards and Butch was  _never_ nice. Just Lone’s luck that he’d get the type of attention he’d pined after for ages on the day he was chased from the vault by Amata’s insane father, Overseer Almodavar.

With the light starting to fall outside, Lone could hear animals some ways off. Instead of hearing the familiar hum of the lights and filtration system, there was deadly silence broken by the occasional howls and barking laughter of the unknown. Lone, admittedly, cried himself to sleep at the edge of the cave where he had an unpleasant view of the sky.

A rough hand shook him awake.

Lone woke in a terror mad scramble as he fumbled the gun he’d stolen off a dead guard. He had two, technically. Amata had given him one and he’d picked up another. In total he was pretty sure he had twenty-seven shots plus whatever ammo he’d grabbed in his mad sprint to get out of the vault. If he was lucky then maybe Amata had put some in the tiny pack she’d somehow thrown together in the mass confusion and hysteria.

Pity he hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes or toothbrush.

The man squatting nearby raised their hands as a crooked smile played on their lips. “Easy now, kid. You okay?”

Lone scooted away while trying not to shiver so hard that he pulled the damn trigger. “F-f-f-f-fine.”

The man’s grin only grew. “That so?”

Lone nodded, wiping determinedly at his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“Alright. ...Well, we usually make camp near here before making the last leg to Megaton. You mind if we park or is this your turf for the night?”   

Lone lowered their shaking weapon slowly, unsure how to answer. After a while they managed to shiver-stutter out a question, “Pp-p-park?”

Instead of taking it as a question, the man beamed a bright grin. “Excellent! Park it is!” He turned, a whistle piercing the air before he reached up and adjusted the ratty old hat and asked, “You eat yet today, kid?”

Eyes wide and still shivering, Lone slowly shook his head to the man’s question before tucking his legs under the big jacket that Amata had shoved into his arms at the vault door. It had been what he wore while working down in the lower reactor levels with Stan and Floyd. Not a lot of heat in the lower levels so Old Lady Palmer had sewn together a bunch of old vault-suits and blankets when Lone had been assigned to help down there. It had been the best gift that year-- even with Amata presenting him with a really amazing sculpture she’d made. A sculpture that he’d forgotten on the dresser along with the picture from his tenth birthday of him and his dad. Things he’d never see again by the looks of it.

“Well I don’t mean to brag, but I make a mean molerat stew.” The man’s head twisted to watch as one of the men outside the cave struck a match and lit an old firepit that Lone hadn’t noticed past his panicked haze. “You ever have Molerat stew?”

Lone shook his head as he stared at the fire. There had been briefings on fire and what to do in a fire emergency but if he was honest, the closest thing he saw to flame was Andy’s mag-thrusters and ‘flame’ nozzle that Stan had disabled after an ‘incident’. As much as he wanted to scoot closer to the warmth and light, he also didn’t want to leave the safety of the cave. He considered it, briefly, but a glance upwards sent him into a panicky spiral that had him nearly dropping the gun as he scuttled back and pressed his back against the wall.

The man moved cautiously closer, warm brown eyes and that same patient smile over his face as he asked quietly, “First time outside?”

Lone nodded, eyes flicking to look over the man’s shoulder briefly at the other two people who were ‘setting-up’ their camp. There was also a huge cow with two heads. From the books, Lone was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to have two heads. Beyond the big beast was a mass of stars and world-- and Lone started to feel REALLY not okay once again.

“Hey, eyes on me,” the man said with a wave of his hand infront of Lone’s face, “No need to worry about out there yet. ...okay?”

“Okay,” Lone answered in a small whisper that sounded about as brave as he felt.

“Good. You got a name I can call you?”

“Lone.”

The man’s grin grew like the campfire and warm glow behind him. “My name’s Crow. It’s nice to meet you, Lone.”

Lones teeth chose that unfortunate moment to chatter as he forced a weak smile, “N-n-nice t-t-t-t-t--”

Crow sat with a laugh that cut off Lone’s poor attempt of a proper greeting. “It’s alright. No need for formalities. Can I ask what brings you out to the big wastes though? From what I know, very few ever escape the One-and-one.”

It took Lone an embarrassingly long time to realize that Crow meant Vault 101. Glancing over his shoulder, Lone answered slowly, “My d-d-dad left and--” his voice broke and dissolved into a whisper, “they were gonna kill me…”

The smile fell slowly off Crows face as he gave a thoughtful nod. “Suppose that’s a good reason to leave.”

Lone tucked his face against the big padded arm of the jacket as he hummed agreement. Really, it was the _only_ reason he’d have left. Life in the vault wasn’t paradise, true, but he’d been happy enough. His bouts of wanderlust were quenched when he and Amata would go poking into some of the ‘forbidden’ areas of the vault. They’d gotten alarmingly good with picking locks in an effort to entertain themselves away from where the tunnel snakes could find them. He even kind of liked his job down in engineering with Stan and Floyd-- neither of which seemed to mind if Lone sang or worked on new songs while he worked.

He must have fallen asleep because he was woken again with a gentle shake. “Hey, kid, Lone, you hungry?” Crow asked from where he knelt beside Lone.

Lones shiver’s had abated and he realized that it was partially because someone had draped a warm blanket around him and also due to the big two headed cow now blocking most of the chilly night air from where it had settled in the entrance.  

Nodding, Lone unfolded his legs. A can full of soup was handed to him, with cloth wrapped around the lower portion so he could hold it without getting burned. “Word of first wasteland advice, always keep a clean can with you.” Crow said with a grin as he settled nearby with his own can. “Good for eating. Good for boiling water.”

One of the guards leaned against the cow nearby while the other sat on the far side of the camp at the edge of the fire’s glow. Crow pointed to the cow, “That big brahmin, the four legged thing, is Clover and Lucky but we mostly refer to them as Clover. The grouchy person there is Kab and the one taking first watch is Pint. That’s lesson number two, if you can, always have someone on watch. You never know what might sneak up on you in the wasteland.”

Lone nodded and sipped from his can. As the flavor hit his tongue, he deeply began to regret the action and it took years of tasting Amata’s bad cooking to keep from simply spitting it out. Crow chuckled as he took a sip from his own can. “Sorry. I may have neglected to mention that Molerat is not really the best of meats even with cooking as good as mine. That’s lesson number three though-- eat what you can when you can. Not a lot of stuff that’s edible in the wasteland. Not a lot of good water either so ration accordingly.”

The lessons continued, each impartment of wisdom carrying Lone through the night and Crow’s comforting presence helping him when he hit the small hiccups of panic that bubbled up at odd moments. The clock on his pipboy blinked midnight by the time he curled up next to the very patient two-headed Clover while Crow took the middle watch and left him alone.

He woke to sunlight and cheerful whistling.

Glancing at the giant mass of blue, Lone very nearly vomited his frankly awful dinner that he’d managed to politely force down. Whimpering, he tucked his face into his jacket. How he was supposed to live out here was a little baffling. Perhaps he could just stay in the cave until the overseer magically became sane again and let him back in. Fat chance.

“Hey, Lone, you sleep okay?” Crow asked from somewhere above him.

Lone peeked out to find that the man was kneeling almost over him as they rifled through one of the packs strapped to the brahmin. “Uhm. It’s… yeah,” Lone mumbled his answer into the sleeve of his jacket.

Crow chuckled as he leaned back and toyed with whatever he’d took from the pack. “Guess that’s good to hear. So, the spirits were generous and gave me an idea last night. Here.”

Sitting up, Lone uncurled from the quiet Brahmin’s side as he carefully accepted the offered item. It was, after some examination, a hat of sorts. He stared down at it in confusion until Crow finally explained, “Maybe if you wear it and don’t look up, you can come out. We’ll be heading to Megaton soon if you wanted to come with. Clover seems quite taken with you so I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“Uhm… thanks.” Lone said as he pulled on the hat like a death sentence before standing and dusting himself.

It actually worked better than he thought it would. The thick cloth sewn into the brim kept most of the world at bay and there was a screen he could even pull down so the sky didn’t seem so terrifying. Holding onto the wall, he edged outside. It was bad. Scary. Yet... still manageable. That is, until it came time to let _go_ of the wall. Panic hit faster than an electric arc off a generator and Lone was left shaking and clinging to the wall as he tried not to burst into tears like Susie’s two year old, France, whenever he was set down on his own.

“Hey, hey, easy now.” Crow crooned as he squatted down so that he could talk to Lone without Lone having to look up. “How about we try holding onto Clover? Think that would work? I’m sure the old girl wouldn’t mind the attention.”

Lone puffed a measured breath through clenched teeth before nodding. Crow guided the patient old Brahmin over until Lone could switch to clinging to it instead of the wall. Minutes passed as Lone hugged the thick and mildly smelly neck in panicked desperation. He knew it was stupid but a part of him was mildly convinced that they’d both float or fall away into that horrible unending blue. When they didn’t, he began to relax.

Clutching a hand to one of the straps on the Brahmin’s large packs, Lone set out slowly with the caravan. Every step took him away from home and everything that had been his life. He clutched the bag Amata had given him to his chest with his free hand as they walked through the crumbling remains of what must have been houses. Spikes of rotting old wood jutted from the ground and on moments that he was feeling brave, he’d glance up and try to guess how many had been trees and how many were remains from human dwellings. Sadly, the guessing game was silent, so he wasn’t able to check to see if he was guessing any of them correctly.

The caravan stopped in the shadow of a wall that was, in all honesty, almost more terrifying than the open sky. Masses of metal were welded, nailed, and warped together to form the hulking wall and gate. The giant gate itself was like the head of a beast-- with spotlights that hung above them forming the glaring eyes and a whirling maw that was some sort of fan. It sucked air in a terrifying roar and swung slowly upwards when the man standing at the top made a warbling whistle. Lone hid behind the calm, cud chewing herbivore-- tucking his face against the fur and counting breaths as Crow set about setting up his stall outside the town’s limits.

“Morning Crow, did you happen to get that order of leathers?” A cheery female voice asked after the crunch of footsteps broke the morning quiet.

Crow chuckled as he hammered the final peg into the ground. “Goodmorning Moira. Just a minute. I think you’ll be rather pleased with what I’ve brought for you today.”

Lone peeked out, the stretched blanket that shaded Crow’s traveling store made him feel infinitely safer now that the sky was mostly hidden away and there was something to catch him if he fell upwards. Crow walked over and unharnessed Clover with a wink to Lone. His voice was gentle and soft as he asked, “How’re you holding up? Feel like peeking inside the town?”

“I… If it’s okay with you and Clover I’d- I’d prefer to stay here f-for right now.” Lone answered while clutching his bag tighter.

Crow patted Clover with a grin. “Oh, we don’t mind at all. If you’ve a mind to try giving her a rubdown, her brushes are in the yellow pack.”

Crow waltzed off before Lone could form questions and he was left on his own as Crow set to whatever strange business it was that he ran with the now steady trickle of people who were coming out of the town’s gates. Hunters, guards, townsfolk-- Lone felt as if he’d been dumped into a strangely horrifying fairy tale as he watched the waves of new and strangely dressed people come out to dump wads of clothing and leave with small plastic tags. Eventually, Lone peeled himself away from watching the procession and found the yellow bag full of grooming supplies. He set to trying to ignore all the strange faces as he worked out how to properly brush the beast.

“Never brushed a brahmin before?”  A sweetly feminine voice asked several minutes into Lone’s failing attempts.

Glancing up, Lone saw that the speaker was a blond girl who stood fidgeting nearby. Remaining silent, he shook his head no. The girl grinned as she tucked a plastic square away into her coat, “Want help?”

Lone looked nervously towards Crow as the girl wandered closer. “Oh, I don't mean like for caps. Just in general. Crow usually let’s me help when I get homesick.”

“Caps?” Lone asked as he toyed with the brush clutched in his hands.”Is … is that currency? Uhm, out here?”

The girl’s dark blond brows pinched as she glanced towards Crow. “Where are you _from_ that they don’t use caps?”

Lone hugged the cow-brush to his chest as he glanced in the direction that he thought they might have come. The dizzying stretch of land was chopped by hills and far more sky than he felt he’d ever be comfortable with. Dropping his gaze back down, he clung to Clover as he answered, “Uhm… From the vault. We, uhm, we had a credit system…”

“The vault? Like… the one down that way or…?”

“I… I don’t know,” Lone’s voice came out a strained whisper and he pressed his face once more against the rust colored fur of the ever patient Clover.

“Good morning, Lucy,” Crow said from nearby, making Lone jump. “Clover’s favoring a hoof if you wanted to save a cap or two and look. I gave her a once over this morning but didn’t see the problem. ...I see you’ve met Lone.”

Lucy nodded, her blond hair dipping with the action and Lone realized that it didn’t really move like he was used to. Infrequent baths and a buildup of oils left it all stringy and limp. The idea of water being a limited supply began to sink in as Lone met the bright blue gaze of the girl standing nearby. He could feel the ragged edges of another rather massive panic attack inching in as ‘horrific fairy tale’ slowly turned into more of a waking nightmare.

“Uh, Crow? Are they okay?” Lucy’s voice was far away and blurred as the panic set in with a new and interesting dose of chest pain as Lone forgot how to breathe properly. Or perhaps it was their heart forgetting how to beat. Everything else seemed wrong so why not have a myocardial infarction to top it off?

Something horrifically strong smelling, or perhaps just horrifically smelling was shoved near Lone’s nose. The scent was like a bottled replication the time Wally had broken Lone’s nose in the bathroom. All pain and ammonia. Wincing away from the smell based assault on his face, Lone cast a panicked glance around him and realized that he’d somehow switched to laying down without quite remembering how.

“Eaaasy now,” Crow said as they placed a light hand on Lone’s shoulder to keep him from rising. “You passed out, kiddo. You okay? Need me to put a blanket on the far side of the tent to block the sky?”

“Uhm… no. It’s-- the tent’s okay. I just…” Lone brought a shaking hand up to their forehead and started to laugh. Tears trickled down from his eyes and into his hair and hat as he stared up at the faded green cloth that made Lone wonder if it was anything like staring up at trees. Through the mild hysteria, Lone tried to explain, “I panicked. I panicked ab-b-bout BATHS.”

Crinkles formed around Crows eyes as he smiled and helped Lone into a sitting position. “Baths huh? … still feeling overwhelmed?”

 _Yes_ , Lone wanted to answer. Instead, the laughter turned into brutal sobs and he tucked his knees close to his chest and wished he was _home_. Home where Amata would hum with him while she sculpted one of her secret projects that he father never approved of while Lone tinkered on the homemade guitar he’d been trying to perfect since he was sixteen. Home where there were baths, and books, and walls. Under the terror and the heaving sobs that he tried to hide away in the large jacket gifted to him by the only mother figure he’d really cared for-- he also realized that he was angry.

He didn’t blame his father for wanting to leave but to do it the way he did? What had he expected would happen to Lone? What had he been thinking when the overseer was already so...unhinged? And worse… what about a goodbye? That anger simmered up as his sobs quelled and he found an almost pleasant boiling medium between hurt and resentment. Those feelings still slipped farther away as a numbness set in with another dose of reality.

It wasn't home. In fact, he didn’t have one anymore.

Rubbing his face, Lone tried to bring himself back to the new world. The trickle of people had stopped and now the world was quiet except for what might have been a PA system piping fuzzy sounding music somewhere from the other side of the giant wall. Crow had settled beside him, silently sewing things from a pile of dropped off rags while not leaving Lone to be by himself. Lucy was asleep, leaning against a now glossy and well brushed Clover who had lain down on a blanket that Crow must have set down. One of the guards, Lone still mixed up the two but he was sure it was Pint, lounged against a rock as he smoked something and billowed gentle clouds.

“Feeling better?” Crow asked softy as he cut a string with a little flick of his knife and moved to the next item.

“Not really,” Lone mumbled as he crossed his legs and pulled over his bag. “...but, thanks…”

Crow nodded. A quiet gesture of understanding and Lone wondered if the man had always been as he was now or if he really did understand the fright and terror of leaving the only home he’s ever known. Swallowing away the misery that blanketed his thoughts, Lone decided to take inventory of what he had. Amata had always been better in emergencies than him. He tended to freeze or fumble while forgetting things.

Opening the bag he found he had to fight back another rise in emotion. There were hastily wrapped provisions from the vault kitchens. Some bottled water. A few things that looked like Amata may have just dumped one of the clinic drawers into the bag-- Paperclips and bobbypins were jumbled in with stimpacks, pocket lint, and pencils. A few clean bandages were wrapped around a box of bullets to keep it quiet. At the bottom of the bag was a package wrapped in old research papers-- Amata’s prefered style of wrapping because ‘old stories’ usually always said gifts were wrapped and she’d been near fanatical about the practice since finding out.

Lone lifted out the package and stared at it. Technically, his twentieth was today but his dad had insisted they have a small party last week. They’d sat in the maintenance room on furtively borrowed pillows and drank Stan and Floyd’s bootleg brew while Lone played on the guitar. Old Lady Palmer had joined them with a batch of snuck sweetrolls and Jonas had done dramatic readings from one of the vaults books until everyone was nearly crying from laughter. It had been just the six of them but Lone prefered those types of parties. They’d been together and family.

Now… Old Lady palmer and Jonas were dead. Lone was stuck outside with no clue as to where his dad had gone and Amata and Stan were left alone with a vault full of maniacs.

Fingers shaking, Lone pulled open the wrappings. It was his original guitar. Over a year ago Wally and Butch had taken it--  tossing it into one of the maintenance shafts with jeers. Since then, Lone had been more careful about hiding his secret project. A card was tucked into the jumble of broken parts with one of Amata’s carefully crafted drawings, a smaller note in Stan’s shaky old hand, and a final curling signature by Floyd.

~ _Happy birthday! Stan and I found this after that flood in the lower levels last month. We know you made a new one but we knew what this one meant. -A_

~ _Happy 20th, Dylone. :) -Stan & Floyd _

Lone bit down on the inside of his lip as he tucked the card into one of his jacket’s inside pockets. He normally kept tools and sometimes the treats that Ms. Palmer would sneak him in the large pockets but today… he thought that the card was better. Then, the need to do something that felt familiar took over and he lost himself to putting the broken and bent instrument back together. If he was honest, he’d only heard a few old recordings of guitars and wasn’t sure he knew what they looked like. He liked to think that maybe his attempt was close but by his father’s chuckle-- he was guessing that he’d never been.

It wasn’t until he tested the chords that he realized the light was starting to fade. His first official day out and he’d survived. He pushed away the thought as he took to plucking notes. The song he played was the one he’d composed for Amata’s eighteenth birthday. She and Christine had done their bad imitation of a waltz in empty classroom that Lone had bargained their old school teacher, Mister Brotch, into letting them secretly use for the evening. He strummed each cord while fighting off tears and the memories danced with shy giggles in the back of his head.

When he went to try and re-tune some of the strings, he noticed he had an audience. People who’d returned for their patched and darned items were lingering nearby. Some had settled into sitting in the dirt and others milled while sending him cautious but curious glances. Lucy nudged his shoulder, “Can you play another?”

Lone twisted his fingers while staring at the ground. “Maybe? Uhm… give me a moment,” he mumbled as he wracked his suddenly very empty feeling brain.

The only other song that he had close to being finished was one he’d been working on for Ms Palmer and although she’d now never get to hear it, he felt like someone _should_. Like a tribute. He reached up under the hat and pulled the strap of cloth that normally kept his hair up in a ponytail. Winding the cloth around his pinky and thumb, he silently hoped that he wouldn’t mess up. It was a technique he’d never used in front of others yet. Shifting his crossed legs, he angled his instrument and gave an experimental rub of the cloth. The low hum purred from the strings and he nodded before picking up the new beat. One hand worked the improvised bow while the others plucked at strings in a cheerful tune like the one that Lady Palmer had liked to hum while baking.

The song ended with with a complex little strum and a flourish-- but he’d played it with only two mistakes that only he’d really know about.

Some of the crowd patted their legs and stomped when he finished. Lone nodded his head, his hat tipping to hide the crowd from view as he gave his best attempt at a sitting bow. He set aside the instrument, hoping that no one would request another. At a hand signal from Crow, the guard who’d been missing earlier and Lone thought might be the one named Kab, ushered off the crowds. Lucy leaned back on Clover with a smile. “I’ve never heard anyone play music like that before. Do they play a lot of music in your vault?”

Lone shook his head as he loosened the strings and tucked away the instrument into his bag. “No. We had a couple songs on the PA and some people would sing but the Overseer…uhm, didn’t like _frivolities_.”

The word bit with the old lectures. He’d never earned one but Amata had. Her father had crushed some of the painfully sculpted works that Amata so dearly loved to create. Lone had been trying to piece together one of the less broken ones. The project sat on his desk-- now never be finished.  

“Oh… so, how’d you learn to play?” Lucy asked as she fidgeted.

Her hands plucked up some of the spare wires and string left from Crow’s earlier work and she wove them together as Lone gathered his thoughts. “I wanted more music so I, I dunno, made more? Dad... said it was a good hobby.”

“Well,” Lucy said as she got up and gave herself a light dusting, “I need to go in before they close the gate for tonight but thanks, you know, for playing. Maybe I’ll see you later? Are you sticking around?”

Lone ducked his head and shrugged. If he was honest-- he hadn’t thought about _later_. In fact, now that he thought about it hey really didn’t know. Crow had been remarkably nice for letting him come this far when Lone had no ‘caps’ to repay them with. Lucy’s footsteps crunched away as he sank into the murk of depressed wondering what he’d do next in this terrifying new world.

Crow’s boots came to a stop in dirt where Lone had been staring. “Hey, Lone, Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Simy, cold fear snaked its way into Lone's stomach as he looked up. His eyes slowly following the neat stitches and careful patches of Crow’s clothing all the way up as his mind raced. Maybe Crow was going to make him leave now or demand the payment that Lone had just realized he couldn’t afford. If things got really bad… maybe he’d find out that Crow wasn’t as nice as he’d initially seemed. It wouldn’t be a surprise since not many people had been very nice in the vault either unless you had something they wanted.

“Okay…” Lone said while tipping his head back as far as he dared.

Crow chuckled and the patched knees bent into a squat as he spoke, “I made twenty extra caps today.”

Lone tried to keep from looking confused as he swallowed down the rising anxiety and Crow continued, “The spirits have blessed me with many gifts, but this earning was not by my hand. Here.”

A small pouch was held out and it jangled softly.

 _Definitely_ being kicked out.

Lone tried to keep his breathing even and not panic as he gingerly took the pouch of what he assumed were caps. His voice was a strangled whisper as he dropped his gaze back to the ground, “I’m sorry…”

“I think… we’ve misunderstood each other somewhere,” Crow said with another one of his warm chuckles. “Let me try again. Your playing today helped with business. If you aren’t opposed to it, maybe you’d be willing to travel with us for a while?”

Lone gripped the bag hard enough for something inside it to feel as if it was cutting his palm as he looked up to Crow’s dark brown eyes. “May I? You… wouldn’t mind?”

“I would not. In fact, I’d be very pleased to have you along. I may even have a friend who you would enjoy meeting. We’ll be seeing her in a day or two if we follow our normal route.”

 

~


	2. ~08.25.73~

Lone felt like he was doing a pretty good job of adjusting. He’d learned that the broadcast signal was referred to as a radio and not a PA. Cows had more than one head. Walking wasn’t too terrible but it was, ultimately, boring as hell. Wear a mask or scarf during a duststorm and make sure your animals were covered proper _and_ look for high ground. If you hear yips it’s okay as long as you don’t hear more than three at once because a bigger pack of whatever made that sound was usually dangerous. Ants are much larger than he’d been lead to believe but they were pretty avoidable. Watch the ground for uneven patterns-- as it could mean traps, mines, or giant freaking scorpions.

However, he was struggling to adjusting to the people who called themselves raiders. Nasty people who somehow made the Tunnel Snakes from the vault look tame. It was day two of slow travel when the radio on Clover buzzed and then crackled to life and the sound of an old woman’s voice piped up. “ _If anyone on the caravan route can hear me, Raiders are nearby. I’ve pulled the bridge lines but it looks like that isn’t stopping them. I’m setting this message to repeat every five minutes. If anyone can help me, the usual deal applies._ ”

Crow checked his rifle before motioning to Kab and Pint-- who Lone had learned he’d reversed name wise-- and turned to Lone. “I’m going to run ahead with the others. Can you take Clover into one of these old buildings and hide till we get back? Just… remember what we’ve taught you. Shouldn’t be long.”

Lone gave a shaky nod as he un-holstered his own pistol. He’d been sparing with his shots but he was still down by an entire clip after they encountered some hulking green brutes that Kab had called ‘muties’. Crow turned and sprinted after the two already running figures and Lone was left alone for the first time since leaving the vault. Panic settled into his stomach but he ignored the feeling as he clucked the way Crow had taught him and lead Clover into the dark of a nearby building. The heady scent of wood in decay, dust, and time was all that thankfully greeted him as he checked the building the way that Pint had shown him.

Then, taking to heart Kab and Crow’s combined scavenging tips, he made a second pass through the building once Clover was safely bedded down and a tripwire trap was set up in the doorway. For the most part, everything that Lone found was too broken or rotted to be of use-- then he noticed the hinges on a rotting painting hanging on the wall. It pulled away with a soft creak to reveal a safe. To his delight, it was one of the old dial spinning types that he and Amata had learned to crack early in their bored days of childhood. Of course… they’d used cups and their pipboys to crack it and all the cups he’d found were shattered far too many years ago.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five minutes passed as he paced before an idea struck. Grinning, he pulled out ‘his’ tin can and pressed it to the door of the safe before pressing his earbud to the back of the can and starting up the sound amplification program on his pipboy. The sounds echoed dully in the quiet room as he worked. Click. Click. Click. CLUNK.

Lone silently pumped the air with his fist as he opened the safe to see what goods he’d uncovered. There was a handful of molding old-world cash and fading paperwork that he shoved aside with a frown. The action exposed the back and something he found ‘slightly’ more interesting. A bottle of pills, a gun, some bullets, and two books.

He put the pills, bullets, and gun carefully into his bag before lifting up the books and as a second thought, the papers as well. Carrying his treasures, he wandered back to Clover. Sitting on the dusty floor, he took off his hat and bit at his thumbnail while looking over his find. The first book was labeled, _Hax for Hacks_ , and the first page boasted it to be the best underground resource for learning how to hack modern computers-- and how not to get caught by the government while doing it. Lone smiled to himself as he set it aside to look at the other one. It was thin, tattered, and slightly bloodstained. Half the words on the cover were smeared with blood but the stamped imprint on the front was still mostly readable if he tipped the book to the side. Angling to book to catch the light, he slowly read the title, _U.S. Covert Operations Manual_.  

The dawning realization that he might have found some pre-war spy’s safe made him laugh quietly to himself and he pulled a piece of brahmin jerky from his bag as he settled down to read some of the papers. It was almost like reading one of the detective novels but from the wrong point of view and he lost himself to the faded words on the pages until a clanking drew his attention with the cracking boom of a gun.

The tripwire.

The can he’d rigged to clang in warning went skittering across the floor with a sizable new hole gracing it’s side. Lone scrambled for his gun just as a rifle swung around the doorway and he was face to face with what appeared to be a walking corpse. Pitch black slits narrowed just above the upside down heart of a missing nose. “Hm. Move it and you lose it,” they said in a raspy voice.

“Uhm…” Lone tipped precariously in his half scramble-pose, “c-c-can I move it a little? I- I think I might fall…”

To his surprise, the corpse-person barked a laugh and kicked his gun away from his outstretched hand before nodding, “Fine. But you move a _lot_ and we’re gonna have an issue.”

Dropping his previously stretched leg, Lone sat up with raised hands and tried not to choke on the last of his jerky as he tucked it into his cheek while wearily watching the corpse-person. A row of surprisingly well maintained teeth was revealed in a grin as they spoke, “Well, ya aint screamin so maybe we can make nice yeah?”

“W-w-what does, uhm, that entail?”

A twitch brought the corpse-person’s hairless brow up, “Depends. You in here hiding with good ‘ol Clover for a reason when I ain't seen Crow?”

One of Clover’s heads snorted softly and butted Lone hard enough that they fell forward before he could answer. The rifle was aimed in a quick little flick and Lone curled tightly on the floor with a whimper. “He, K-kab, and P-p-p-pint  went to help s-s-sss-someone. M’watchin her. P-p-please d-d-d-d-d--” Lone couldn’t get out the last of his beg as the stutter hit.

When no life-ending shot came, Lone peeked out from behind his arm. The person still pointed a gun at them but they also seemed to be watching something just outside the doorway. They leaned slowly back into the shadows just as Lone heard the crunch of running footsteps and heavy curse words spewed with an ease that almost made Lone jealous. He’d almost said ‘fuck’ once upon meeting his first scorpion but it had gotten lost somewhere between running for his life with the others and trying not to pass out from the mind-numbing terror that came with meeting a bug twice his size.

When the Raiders disappeared, a new pound of footsteps rose up behind them and a second gun was pulled from the corpse-person’s thigh holster to aim through the doorway. However, it lowered almost as quickly as they laughed. “Ah, Crow. Good timing. This one yours?”

Crow peeked around the rotting doorway, dark eyes blinking as he stared down at Lone. “Indeed they are, Daisy. The spirits warned me they were in distress but I suppose that was just you?”

So-called Daisy let off another warm chuckle as they finally relaxed. “Maybe. Raiders passed by not a minute ago.”

“Indeed. They were bedeviling Agatha’s once again and we’ve just chased them off after thinning their group.”

The rifle came up and away with a clack as Daisy shouldered it and moved aside for the others to enter. “You boys heading northwest?”

“That was the intention. News?” Crow asked as he came in and offered down a hand to Lone-- the smile Crow normally wore was gone and there was something sad in his eyes as Lone struggled to his feet.

“Yeah. Germantown’s got mutants. Overran the ghoul settlement there and Lucky said that the slaver parties have been demanding passage caps for the northern stretch.”

“I see… It may be wise to alter our course for the time being then. Would you care to join us?”

Daisy shrugged, the action sent her gun arching up towards the roof and she hummed. “Sure. I was gonna head towards Underworld but Scavving’s been a bust in this area and I don’t really have anything to sell yet.”

Crow nodded and finally turned his attention on Lone. Now that he was closer, Lone could see the beginnings of a bruise just below one of Crow’s eyes and he had a quickly tied bandage on one arm. Crow’s tone was weary and disappointed as he spoke, “Lone.”

Lone cringed as he wrung his fingers nervously. “Sorry. I s-sss-set the t-t-trap…”

Pint clapped a hand on Lone’s shoulder as they gave him a gentle shake. “Com’mon, kid. You know that’s not why he’s upset. Now where’s your gun?”

Daisy held the pistol up from where she stood at the far wall. “Let me guess. Vault?”

“Course.” Kab snorted from the doorway. He rarely talked but he’d been a gruff sort of nice to Lone so far.

Pint on the other hand had seemingly decided to take the big brother approach and bounced between protective and vindictive. That vindictive streak seemed to win this time as his arm snaked up to wrap around Lones’s neck to bring him down so that Pint could drive the knuckles of his other hand into his skull. It was a maneuver that Pint seemed to excel at and Lone was quickly despising it.

“Kid’s still learning, but some lessons just haven’t stuck in his fluffy little head,” Pint said while Lone was forced to breath the rather fragrant smell of the ‘merc’ as his now definitely less fluffy hair was ruffled.

In desperation to be loosed, Lone used one of the tricks that Ms Palmer had taught him for trying to defend against Wally when he’d make a similar move. Dropping his hand low, Lone pinched hard at the skin behind their knee. Pint let go with a yelp of surprise and Lone backed away from them as he spoke, “N-n-next t-time I’ll go for something more t-tender. _Stop it_.”

“Easy Lone,” Crow said as he placed himself between them with outstretched hands. “Pint’ll stop but you have to understand, if this was anyone besides Daisy you’d likely be dead. The wasteland is not a safe place.”

Lone glanced between the solemn figures and twisted his fingers hard enough to hurt as he answered. “...sorry…”

Kab lit a cigarette from his post at the doorway. His low, easy drawl came out with a puff of the strange smelling smoke, “Not angry, String-bean. Scared us s’all.”

Daisy chuckled, still swinging the gun as she spoke, “Gave me a scare too with that tin-can trap. Thought it was a grenade at first. Gonna give an old gal like me a heart attack.”

Lone rubbed the back of his neck and bit down the urge to apologize again as he stared at the floor. One of the mutants had thrown a grenade so he at least didn’t had to ask what that was. More-so when Pint had nearly gotten killed dragging him behind a rock to avoid the blast. Crow bent, picking up Lone’s hat and dusting it as he spoke, “Let us head for Agatha’s and make camp for the evening. Tomorrow we’ll head for Canterbury Commons.”

“Think it’s time to adjust the route again?” Pint asked while rubbing at his leg and shooting Lone a grin.

“I believe it may be. I’ll speak to Earnest about calling a meeting.”

Nods were exchanged like the sticky cap currency before the group set off towards Agatha’s. Lone tried not to sulk as he clung to Clover in his usual spot. It wasn’t fair, really. He’d _tried_ to follow all the rules and he’d been thorough with checking the abandoned building. It, frankly, sucked a fat one that Crow seemed so disappointed with him just because someone had come along with a bigger gun.

But that’s the wasteland wasn’t it? Things weren’t fair. The bigger gun won. People were horrible-- worse than before the war for some reason. Food sucked and Lone would always disappoint someone.

Daisy sidled up to him with a jaunty step that made him think of the old vids with dancing that they’d sometimes put on in the community room. “Hey kid, we didn’t get a proper introduction. I’m Daisy.”

“Lone,” Lone said while shifting his grip on his pack. “Dylone Cosswall but j-just Lone is fine.”

Daisy gave a rich laugh that seemed to form from somewhere deep in her chest as she bumped her shoulder into Lone’s. “How many days out, sugar?”

“Out?”

“Of your vault? How long?”

“Eight.” Lone whispered quietly.

“Hm. You did good for only being eight days out.”

Lone pursed his lips as his eyes burned at thinking of his vault. He refused to waste water and cry over it further though-- there was only a small amount of water in his pack left and he didn’t want Crow to be upset with him. True, Crow had never been upset when he cried. In fact he’d been very understanding but Lone hated being a damn crybaby anyhow. Perhaps it was more that he didn’t want to disappoint himself further.

They fell into silence as he watched the scroll of dusty ground, rocks, dead shrubs, and more dusty ground through the window his hat provided. When they finally reached the top of a hill overlooking a canyon, Lone was worn from the day and hoping they would stop soon.

Kab’s hand patted at Lone’s shoulder, drawing his attention up from the ground. “String-bean.”

“Hm?” Lone asked, glancing up enough to see the bottom roll of smoke as Kab lit a fresh cigarette.

“Nice find.” Kab said while squinting towards the setting sun. He glanced back to Lone with a small smile as he explained, “Saw the books. You did good.”

The damn tears wanted to come back as Lone twisted the strap on his pack and whispered, “Thanks.”


	3. ~03.15.74~

“Thanks Agitha, f-for everything,” Lone said quietly as he offered a hand out to the old woman.

She simply tugged him in, wrapping her wiry arms around for a surprisingly strong embrace. “You know you don’t have to go looking for it. You’re far more important than some silly violin.”

Lone forced a smile as he leaned away to pick up his pack. They both knew he wasn’t just leaving because of the violin. For six months he’d stayed with the woman after he’d gotten injured by the raiders returning unexpectedly to jump the caravan only a week after they’d chased them away from Agitha’s. Crow and the others were forced to move on without him but honestly that wasn’t such a bad thing since Crow and the others stopped by regularly. 

It still amazed him a little that Agitha, who had so little to begin with, had still taken him in. She’d taught him what she knew of writing music, and in return he’d joined her in playing on the radio for Crow and the others. On rare days, when he was feeling brave Lone would scavenge outside with his newest companion-- a dog he’d found injured within the nearby scrapyard and named Treble. Still, three mouths to feed was a bit much when the caravans only came by once a week and no one was really a hunter.

“It’s okay.” He said softly before taking a definitive step back, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

He could tell she didn't believe him but she waved him off anyhow. Watching him from the hill until he was out of sight, maybe even longer, but he couldn’t tell after he disappeared into the maze of the scrapyard. Turning back only revealed swirls of dust and Treble sniffing the occasional object before running to catch up.

 

**~~~*~~~**

 

The bar was closed for it’s few ‘off’ hours and Charon was bedding down for the small amount of time he was allowed when there was a fuss at the front entrance. It didn’t have anything to do with the bar so at first he didn’t pay any attention until a group of battered looking ghouls ran by carrying a body on a tattered tarp. 

Smoothskin.

He only caught a glimpse of them before they all disappeared into the back room where the doctor lurked. Still, one glimpse was enough to see brown skin like the sunset in a sandstorm and a faded blue jacket that still had more color on it than anything else in the building. Behind the group had trailed a dog with a bandana around its neck as it whined, worried in it’s own way and unable to do anything more than follow loyaly. 

If Charon had any give-ah-damns to give perhaps he might have tried. Instead, he put it out of his mind and closed his eyes. Sleep was something he needed and there was only this one opportunity for a few winks assuming Ahzrukhal didn’t hire him out for favors. The next day he heard the story whether he cared or not as the bar regulars gossiped over their drinks.

“-- scavvin on the west side when we were attacked by raiders.”

“No kiddin? How’d the smoothskin get involved?”

“Ran up and just started helpin. Seems he knew Daisy... or was it Willow? Anyhow, he actually gave Hadmun a stimpack and dragged him to cover if you can believe it. I though we were all gonna die when the grenade landed.”

The other ghoul was enraptured, enough even to tap the counter to signal for another drink for each of them on the tab as they asked, “Shit. How’d you get out alive?”

The ghoul sporting a grimy bandage around his head and a makeshift sling leaned forward, maybe for effect or because his hearing had been blown, as he said, “The smoothskin jumped on it.”

“You’re joking. He’d be more scrambled than Meat and Ethyl’s rad-rotted brains if that were the case,” the buyer said scowling and almost looking like he regretted buying the other ghoul a drink.

“God’s honest.” The injured ghoul said raising his glass. “He tossed something over it-- didn’t see what myself on account of getting a facefull of nailbat-- but whatever it was took most of the blast. The raiders looked damn surprised too. Pretty easy to mop up after that and bring the kid back. Least we could do, really.”

“Damn. Wild.”

The rumors trickled in for the next few days-- only once causing a fistfight that Charon had to break up. What the kid had used was a regular debate for most of that week with guesses ranging from trashcan lid to experimental armour. Honestly, he could care less but it was at least interesting to listen to.

Charon was watching faces for signs of trouble and listening to the chatter when a new conversation caught some of his interest.

“Did you hear? Seems the kid’s awake.”

“No kiddin. Thought he was a goner for sure. Pity. I hear Winthrop was hoping to get a crack at some of the scraps the boy was hauling so that he could fix that generator.”

“Yeah, well, looks like Winthrop’s just gonna have to go scav on his own,” was the reply before they both chuckled like they’d let off the world’s greatest joke. 

That evening Charon was bedding down when he heard it. Instead of the endless music from Ahzrukhal’s beloved fucking radio there was a slowly played tune. It echoed down the hall, eerie and wistful, the source-- the Doctor’s room just down the way. He fell asleep listening, the gently strummed tune singing it’s own song of different times like a lullaby for the damned.

For the next week or so he saw snatches of the kid-- though they avoided the Ninth Circle like any goddamn decent person-- and it wasn’t until Ahzrukhal dragged Charon along with him when he left the bar for some unknown reason that Charon met the kid. They were playing in Charol’s, the dog asleep beside them as their fingers danced over a series of strings on the strangest looking scrap metal project Charon had ever lain eyes on. Everyone tensed as Ahzrukhal marched right up to the kid who seemed blissfully unaware of the possible danger.

“You, kid,” Ahzrukhal rasped, “HEY.”

The music jerked to a stop, twanging slightly as the kid looked up. Eyes darting, the kid finally looked appropriately nervous and Charon could see the bob of their throat before they asked, “uhm… yes?”

“How much for you to play in the Ninth? I’ll double the rate this ol bitch is paying you,” he said as he jerked his thumb at Greta who probably wasn’t the one actually paying.

Greta didn’t seem to really mind being called ‘ol bitch’ since she and Ahzrukhal had regular rows but all the same looked like she might start throwing punches for Carol’s sake so Charon slowly pulled out his shotgun as he stared pointedly at her. He, for the most part, had nothing against Greta or Carol but neither of them held his contract which meant if they posed a threat-- they died. Seeing his action, Greta raised her hands and backed off thankfully. Good, he didn’t really want to kill her if it wasn’t necessary or an order.

The kid still hadn’t answered, their gaze now flicking wildly between Carol and Ahzrukhal. 

“I, uhm--” they began to stutter out before Carol edged over and whispered something.

The whispered continued, mostly under the range that Charon could hear but he did catch little snatches of ‘are you sure?’ and ‘it’ll be safer’ so he didn’t really consider it a threat. 

Ahzrukhal of course knew he could bully his way to winning-- it’s why he’d brought Charon-- and simply let them talk it out. Eventually, the kid nodded.

“Evenings for--” they paused and Charol mimed a number at them-- “Tweenty-f-five?--” Charol shook her head and mimed the number again-- “Fifty caps each night?--” Charol nodded with a reassuring smile-- “b-but I get to take breaks when I want and… uhm… I think that’s it…”

The leer on Ahzrukhal’s face was decidedly edging towards nasty as he asked, “fifty? Highest I go is twenty-five.”

The dog gave a little warning growl as the boy actually seemed to momentarily grow a spine and he asked, “I th-thought you s-said double what she p-pays?”

Would of been better if he hadn’t stuttered but Charon was almost hoping this kid would win. Of course, he wouldn’t as soon as Ahzrukhal gave the inevitable order for Charon to break the kids fingers and Charon clamped down on any feelings over the boy that might have sprouted up. 

To his surprise Ahzrukhal laughed, his nasty attitude melting away as he stepped forward and clapped the kid on the shoulder. “I did didn’t I? Good, good. Then you’ll come to play at the Nine starting tomorrow?  _ Fifty _ caps a night but the dog stays out.”

Looking alarmed but resigned to his fate, the kid gave a sharp nod. “F-fine.”

And that was it. For the rest of the evening Ahzrukhal was actually in a good mood and Charon realized part of the why-- Carol’s had been packed and the Ninth had been...well, nearly empty. With the promise of the kid playing it meant that people would come to the Ninth instead because people wanted to hear the new songs. However, the promise of so many caps a night… Charon wondered what Ahzrukhal had up his sleeve because no one in Underworld made that sort of money, not even Ahzrukhal. And if he did he definitely wouldn’t be offering to pay so much even if he was a music fan. 

They all found out a little over a month later after the kid-- who Charon learned was called Lone-- stayed late and asked to be paid for all of the playing he’d been doing. He intended to set off now that he was healed and he had someone waiting for him that he didn’t want to keep waiting much longer. Ahzrukhal, the slimy bastard, got that ‘look’ as he pulled out a small pouch of caps and tossed it at Lone.

“You’ll get more if you stick around.”

Lone stared at the caps, possibly dumbfounded at the utter lie he’d been taken for which only showed how gullible the poor fool was, before he looked up and spoke in an angry whisper, “I have p-played _every_ _night_. The deal was f- _fifty caps_ a _night_.”

“Easy kid, I never said I’d pay you right away--”

“You  _ will _ pay me, or Winthrop w-will have Cerberus escort you out,” the boy hissed, his cheeks dark with his fury.

Such a threat was not an idle one. Cerberus HATED Ahzrukhal so that part was certainly believable. Of course, that robot hated everyone so that wasn’t strange but as of recently Winthrop had been a little short tempered when Ahzrukhal short changed him on fixing the Ninth’s still and simply promised to ‘pay him later. That of course was two weeks ago. Lone, being beloved by most of the residents likely wouldn’t have made the threat if Winthrop himself hadn’t given it like ammo to be used.

Ahzrukhal’s eyes narrowed before flicking towards Charon-- not in a silent command way but a quickly thinking way-- before he snarled, “Fine.”

Charon could only hear the blood rushing to his ears as all his attention narrowed into watching what was going on when Ahzrukhal pulled out a dirty scrap of parchment and set it down. “I’ll give you something of equal value.”

“I d-don’t want an IOU,” Lone said crossing his arms and glaring-- unaware of what he was being offered. “I want the caps you p-p-promised.”

“It’s not a fucking IOU. Take it or leave it.” Ahzrukhal growled.

“Cheap  _ asshole _ ,” Lone said as he grabbed the paper and stalked out.

There was a copper tang in Charon’s mouth and a ringing in his ears as Ahzrukhal glared at him. “Well? Go on. Get!”

“You,” Charon rasped, his voice feeling rusty after so long of not using it, “don’t give me orders anymore.”

When he pulled his shotgun and fired two rounds, Ahzrukal didn’t even have time to plead or even do much at all before his head was little more than a paste and Charon turned on his heel and walked out. Lone was with a group of people looking startled and curious just outside the bar’s doors but when he caught sight of Charon advancing on him-- he ran.

Charon caught up with him in a secluded corner where few ever go to lay deep in the museum. He was curled tight with his arms over his head. “I-I-I d-d-d-didn’ m-mean it,” Lone stuttered, clearly terrified. “I m-m-mean he  **_is_ ** a cheap asshole b-b-but that doesn’t mean-- p-pl-please don’t…”

Don’t? Oh hells, the kid must have thought that Charon was coming after him on Ahzrukhal’s orders. That explained the chase. “You have my contract.” Charon explained while fighting the annoyance that he was now employed under this weak idiot who may or may not have jumped on an actual fucking grenade on purpose.

Lone tugged the paper out in a desperate fumble of fingers and held it out. “Sorry. I-it’s your’s j-j-just d-d-d---”

“I. Work. For. You. Now.” Charon ground out, hoping that  _ now _ the idiot would get it.

He didn’t.

Lone positively dissolved into sobs. 

This was going to be a  _ long _ night.

Waiting for his new employer to calm down and understand what was going on took exactly four hours, three minutes, and fifteen seconds. He knew because he counted each one as every single second grated on his nerves more than simply standing like a deadly statue for hours at a time in the Ninth. During that time Lone tried to hand the contract to him exactly three times before Charon growled and set them off into a terrified crying heap again. 

So far, Charon could say with some certainty that Lone was unlike any other master he’d had. Though, with all the tears and terrified stuttering, Charon was not sure that was a GOOD thing. Sadly, he also couldn't completely hate Lone as he had his previous contract holders-- as Lone had not really ‘knowingly’ purchased him and obviously had no desire to have someone bound to him.

So Charon settled with only hating him a little.

Eventually, Charon settled against the nearby wall and closed his eyes while waiting for Lone to calm down. He woke whenever the boy moved-- old habits from owners who traveled more coming back as easily as breathing-- and eventually Lone woke and while eyeing Charon nervously, headed up towards Carol’s. Charon followed, ghosting behind as Lone bounced between trying to pretend that Charon wasn’t there and nervously eyeing him as if he might attack. It was… entertaining to some degree. 

There was a whispered conversation between the boy and Carol as they looked down at Charon’s contract. She shook her head and pushed it back towards him. At least SHE knew what it meant. There were some things in this world that couldn’t be passed off.

“You could sell it,” suggested Greta in a whisper that was perhaps a little louder than It should have been. 

Lone looked aghast and their voice raised just enough for Charon to hear, “S-sell it? He’s a person! That’s… that’s horrible Greta.”

Greta shrugged, looking a little flippant as she answered, “then you have to keep it and deal, idiot.”

The look on Lone’s face twisted with confusion and horror. “I don’t understand.”

Carol wrapped her arm around the boy’s shoulder and tugged him off into a corner, her whispering too low for Charon to catch-- not that he cared. He stationed himself in an empty section near the door, eyeing the room for trouble out of habit until Lone’s dog wandered over to him. They stared at each other, each sizing the other up until Greta set down a plate and the mutt’s attention was instantly drawn elsewhere. Namely to food that looked better than anything Charon had eaten recently.  To his surprise, Greta also came and shoved something at him, stalking away just as quickly as she’d come so that she could return to her cooking.   

Charon stared at it and decided after a while that it was probably better to wait so he wrapped it in a spare cloth and tucked it away in the pouch on his hip. If he was lucky, Lone would allow him more food later. However, if he was not he’d need to scavenge for himself while they traveled. It was a fact he was used to but this small promise of at least one meal later would make things easier. 

Once Lone and Carol finished whispering in their corner Lone quickly packed up a few things and Charon noticed Carol passing him a small pouch of caps. “Here.”

“You don’t owe me anything--” Lone started to protest before Carol shook her head.

“No, Treble was a lot of help sniffin out those rats in the storeroom and a big help to us. She’s a good girl. Consider it payment for her work. You’re gonna need it.”

“But--”

“No buts, hun. Take it. … and if you run into my Gob out there tell him I’m proud and I love him.”

Lone nodded slowly before hugging the old ghoul. Rare for a smoothskin to hug with seemingly no issues but there was no hesitance to his touch. “Thank you Carol. Uhm, when Greta cools down, give her a hug from me okay?”

Greta, who’d been pretending to stir something nearby huffed and set her spoon down as she stomped over and offered herself. Lone hugged her too, saying something that made her laugh as she pulled away.

It didn’t take long after that before they were out. Charon blinked in the dim light of the cloudy day-- more light than he’d seen in several years of being Ahzrukhal’s-- and Lone, who was wearing a giant and rather stupid looking hat, was asking him something.

“Uhm… I don’t, uhm, know your name…”

“Charon,” Charon answered, eyeing the lumbering figures prowling the nearby trenches. 

“Oh. I-it’s nice to m-meet you then Charon. Uhm… I guess you’re gonna be following me for, uhm, now… right?”

“Yes. You hold my contract.”

“Uhm…. yeah. I--... sorry. So, I’m heading north-ish and, uhm, I have supplies but not enough for both of us for more than a couple days--”

“I can manage my own.”

“Oh… oh… uhm… right. Okay, but I was wondering if you wanted a pack of your own? I, uhm, I didn’t pick up an extra bedroll b-b-because I figured we could take turns on watch. And uhm, if there is anything you n-need--”

“I do not.”

“Ammo?”

Charon paused, doing a mental count. He had thirty eight shots now after shooting Ahzrukhal. “If you find shotgun shells,” he said with a nod before pausing. Did this whelp use a gun? “What ammo for you?”

Lone looked surprised before pulling out a shell from one of his massively oversized jacket’s pockets. “Uhm, these?”

It was a standard 10mm but something else caught his attention. There was a groove in the casing that gave him the rising suspicion that the gun it was fired from was not being very well maintained. Not his place to say anything on it so he simply said, “I will look for more.”

“Oh, uhm, y-you don’t have to. It’s fine.”


	4. ~07.02.74~

A week. It took them a goddamn week to get to a location that was relatively close by to Underworld-- and even then they weren't 'there' but 'close'-- simply because the boy had the WORST sense of direction that Charon had ever encountered. Thankfully Lone made up for it by memorizing areas fairly quickly and navigating by… honestly Charon wasn’t sure.

There were times that Lone did alright but they would get lost if Lone tried to use a map and thus often did. Lone definitely didn’t use the sun or stars to navigate on the rare days that he wasn’t walking in circles thanks to his pipboy-- in fact Lone generally never looked up which was how they’d gotten into their current problem as they hunkered down to avoid the sniper who they’d been trapped by.

Beside him, Lone used a shaking hand to tie off a wound on his own arm-- one that would have been fatal if Charon hadn’t jerked him out of the way-- and Charon looked around for something he could use to help their situation. There, on an old car husk trapped beneath the collapsed wall that they’d hidden behind was a mirror. Ripping it off was easier than he’d thought it would be and soon he was angling it to get a view of the sniper. He finally tilted the warped old surface enough to see up at the top of the bomb-blasted old building and the sniper there.

The bastard waved.

Then the bullet shattered the mirror in Charon’s hands and he snarled a curse as he dropped it to the ground.

“How many?” Lone asked in a soft voice from where he sat.

Charon couldn’t see his face, covered as it was by the hat, and he growled his response, “Why don’t you take off that goddamn hat and check yourself?”

“I… uhm…c- can’t.”

He was half tempted to rip it off the little bastard’s head since with the contract that was neither here nor there but something stopped him as he hunkered down further and tried to ignore the spray of concrete rubble that pelted him when the sniper took another shot in an attempt to get them to come out.

“Can’t?” He asked while thinking , _you didn’t wear one in Underworld so what changed_?

“This is gonna sound sss-ss-sstupid but I’m afraid of the sk-sk--sk--” Lone paused and took a deep breath, slouching further and hugging his gun to his chest before he forced out the word, “sky.”

Afraid of the sky. Charon hadn’t met many vault dwellers if that’s what this kid really was-- most of them don’t survive their first few days-- but out of strange things to be afraid of that one really took the fucking fancy lad.

“God. I hope you’re joking,” he growled while doing a mental count of how many shots HE had and how many he’d heard the sniper use.

With the regular pelting that the sniper was doing, Charon half suspected that this person had really set up shop here and either they wanted to make them think that they had an endless supply of bullets. Or they really did. Either way. If the sniper was smart-- and so far they’d proved to be-- there would also be other issues. Likely floor traps. Mines. Maybe even a guard dog in the lower levels. Thinking of dogs, he cast his gaze towards Lone’s mutt, Treble, who lay at alert near Lone’s feet. It was Treble’s warning that had alerted Charon so at least the fuzzy bastard had some use.

“Not joking.” Lone’s quiet whisper came out. “But uhm… I have an idea. Can you use grenades?”

Charon stiffened. “You’ve got grenades?”

“Only a c-couple. They, uhm, sc--sc-scare me.” Lone said as he dug quickly through his pack and pulled out a little metal lunchbox.

Opening the box revealed five grenades, neatly placed so each could fit and then there were fabric strips beside each one to keep them ‘safe’. How very vault dweller. Charon grabbed one with a growl, pulled the pin, and lobbed it.

Even his bad ghoul hearing caught the Sniper’s ‘shit!’ before an explosion shuddered the ground. Things were quiet. Maybe too quiet but Charon wasn’t gonna risk poking his head out to check just yet like an amature. Instead, he picked up one of the broken pieces of glass from his earlier attempt and used it too look. The sniper was limping back into position so SOMETHING had gotten him-- assuming the bastard wasn’t a cripple beforehand. Still, he wasn’t dead and that was an issue.

“I’m going to toss another,” Charon said grabbing it from the case, “and when I say-- we run like hell. Got it?”

Lone gave a nod, his head jerking as he shut the case and hastily shoved it back into his pack.

“That wasn’t nice!” The sniper called. “Gonna make you pay for that!”

Charon considered calling back. Riling them up. Making them sloppy. Yet his voice felt too unused and he was still slipping back into getting used to traveling. To his surprise Lone placed a hand on his arm. His stomach flopped with the contact as Lone spoke, “Wait. They have to reload after every sh-sh-shot, right?”

Charon tilted his head and listened as the shots picked up. Kid was right. Must be a modified rifle or something that couldn’t chamber more than one. They were, of course, damn quick in their reloads but it was at least a second. He nodded. “Looks like.”

“And they go after anything that moves?”

“What’re you getting at, kid?”

Lone nodded as well before offering out one of his water bottles. “Here. You haven’t b-been drinking a lot. If you drink it, maybe you c-c-can toss the bottle to dis-dis-dis--” another deep breath as if to steady himself-- “distract them.”

Smart. And wasteful. Charon eyed the bottle of purified water before deciding ‘fuck it’. The water was almost sweet and it washed the dust of the day away. He wasn’t gonna think on how this water could have lasted the kid two days. Mainly because a vindictive part of him said that if they died this just denied their killer of some more spoils. That, and the kid offered it so Charon was going to take like any good wastelander.

When finished, Charon scooped dirt and sand into the bottle to darken the inside and give it more weight for a better throw. At a hasty glance one ‘might’ mistake it for a grenade. Might. This part was blind luck on whether it worked or not but Charon was hoping that it worked. Ghoul or no, he still prefered living.

Just after another shot sent a spray of dirt pelting the back of his head, he mimed the motion of pulling a pin, knowing the sniper was likely watching more than just for them to move-- perhaps even reflections or shadows-- and then he twisted and tossed. Bastard must have been a quicker reload than Charon thought because a bullet still tore through his shoulder before the sniper dodged. Charon didn’t pause though, using his other arm to throw, he stood and tossed the real grenade in a fucking beautiful arc that landed all the way in the top of the building.

He was already running when the explosion hit, dragging Lone in front of him by the scruff of the boy’s jacket and trying not to trip over Treble as she streaked ahead. By the sounds of a secondary explosion, rubble, and crunching he suspected some of the building was collapsing after his trap triggered one of the ones he’d rightfully guessed the sniper having. Pity. If the sniper was dead, that would have been prime scavving. You don’t hole up like that unless you’ve got enough to stay and protect what you’ve got.

A block down, they both stood panting. Hands on knees, Lone sounded a little like he might throw up and Charon felt a little like he was right behind him on that thanks to drinking so much water and not being used to it. Without a word, Lone began digging in his pack and pulled out bandages-- which honestly he seemed to have more of than food-- and he offered them up to Charon.

“Your, uhm, sh-shoulder.”

Charon glanced at it before asking, “any irradiated water?”

“Uhm…” They set to digging, the pack’s meticulous packing not hindering them as they reached deep and pulled a bottle out. “This? If it’s to ss-sterilize I’ve got alc--”

“It’s not,” Charon growled, snagging the bottle from Lone’s hand.

There was a split second when their fingers touched and his stomach flopped uncomfortably. Then Lone’s hand was gone. Thin fingers with caloses in strange places because of that instrument he played fluttered away and Charon unscrewed the bottle and poured it over the wound with a hiss.

“That’s _unsanitary_.” Lone stressed, looking antsy and already holding a little bottle of clear alcohol in his hands.

Charon rolled his eyes. “Ghouls,” he explained through clenched teeth, “heal with radiation.”

“F-fine, but it can still _infect_ ,” Lone said as he held out the bottle.

“What’re you, a damn doctor?” Charon growled as he took the offered alcohol.

“No,” Lone said, suddenly showing too much interest in the ground, “my dad was th-though.”

Ah, a social landmine. Charon wasn’t going to step on that now that it had been dusted off and brought to the open. After taking a healthy swig of the alcohol, Charon obediently doused his already rapidly healing wound with it. If it healed better than the others he wasn’t going to say shit.

~~

The old Vault Tech building. It’s what the kid was heading for, of course, and Charon hoped that this wasn’t some idiot groupie vault fanboy instead of an escaped vaultie. By the jacket and the pipboy… well it was possible and it wouldn’t actually be the first Charon had met, though it would explain the survival skills. Either way, the place was crawling with both mutants and angry goddamn robots but to his surprise the kid actually found a way around that with minimal wounds on both their parts.

With a mumble about helping someone named Stanley reprogram an Andy his employer hacked away at one of the terminals and suddenly they had a building full of robotic guarddogs to chase away the green bastards. The building was actually ‘safe’ within an hour, though Charon refused to let down his guard. After stringing some defensive traps where Lone was holed up looking over information on a terminal, Charon went hunting. The building was ripe for scavving and he hedged on whether he really wanted to bring useful items back or… just the stuff he could use. He settled on a happy medium, collecting any food, water, or medical supplies for the immediate while also gathering all bullets and guns from the mutants and squirreling them away. If the kid wanted to haul things back to underworld to sell then… well the option was there.

Of course, it also might make a nice stockpile and safehouse, assuming the kid was interested and a team of something didn’t come in and take over the building. Though that begged the question of what type of team posed a threat. Mutants couldn’t do it. Too much exposed flesh-- they’d fry from the lasers even if bullets didn’t normally penetrate their goddamn skin. Regular scavvers couldn’t do it either, even en masse. Their firepower wasn’t enough that they could push through before there were piles of dead and the cost was too high. Scavvers prefered easy marks unless they were crazy or on chems. Raiders definitely couldn’t do it.

Now, Talon company or brotherhood… maybe. It was possible. They had the armour and the guns but to be honest if they were interested in a building that you’ve set up shop in then… well… you had bigger problems. Of course, that begged the question of how useful the information on the vault tech computer was and was it possible to move their mechanical army? Assuming, of course, that the kid was smart enough to think of or want that.  

Flicking the ash from his cigarette, Charon cast a glance at Lone before returning to taking inventory. He didn’t have his employer’s fancy pipboy but he didn’t need it, even after all these years his mind was sharp enough for a simple inventory count. Nine rifles that were good for little more than spare parts-- lucky if he could make one good gun from that mess. Sixteen grenades-- a healthy amount to ruin someone’s day and good for setting traps assuming you didn’t mind possibly collapsing whatever doorway or stairwell you set it up in. Two stimpacks hidden in his boots with four more hidden in the lower level of the building for an emergency along with a few other survival items.

“Well… I’ve got the map m-marker now, Treble,” Lone mumbled, his hand absently patting at the sleeping dog beside him. “Now we just gotta hope it’s in its c-case.”

Case? Hm, that sounds more like treasure hunter talk. Dangerous. Treasure hunters tend to crawl into nasty places with singular goals. It meant more work for Charon and a higher risk. Difficult to protect someone from their own goddamn stupidity.


	5. ~08.15.74~

 

Lone stretched and scratched at his chest. It felt strange not wearing the binder that Mrs. Palmer had sewn for him but in the wastes mobility, breath, and washability took precedence over things like physical appearance.  At least his jacket covered his chest and for the most part he didn’t need to think about it.

Except when raiders shouted disgusting suggestions on what they’d do to his body-- no matter the gender it was all horrifying. Everything about raiders was horrifying. They were, at times, even worse than mutants with their bags of rotting meat chunks hanging from the ceilings. Raiders… they were true monsters in Lone’s opinion and it was nights like this that he truly hated them, more so when they haunted his dreams with human faces as they did truly horrifically inhumane things.  

Rolling over, Lone tried to push the nightmare out of his mind and get some actual sleep. He’d taken first watch and by the glance at his pipboy he hadn’t even been asleep very long since relinquishing the position to Charon who sat against the tree husk they’d ‘made camp at’ with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Lone sometimes considered mentioning that he’d read in one of his favorite detective novels that smoking messed up your night vision but… even after traveling together for the last few weeks the rough mannered ghoul still kinda scared him and honestly he probably knew better. Afterall, Lone had only been out of the vault… was it nearing a year?

When he rolled over again, Charon was eyeing him. “Can’t sleep?” The rusty voice asked.

Lone sat up and tucked his legs under his jacket as he shook his head. Normally he’d have played his guitar to calm down- let the melody put him back to sleep. However, tonight they were in raider territory and hadn’t even lit a fire out of paranoid precaution. Dinner had been a cold can of 200 year old beans split between them and some molerat jerky for Treble. They didn’t really need to worry about food at least. Charon had found a surprisingly good amount in the vault tec building that he shared and even started carrying a pack of his own so that Lone didn’t have to carry everything. 

For a while things were quiet before Lone asked, “Charon? C-can I ask how old you are?”

The smell of the ghouls cigarette smoke drifted by on the faint breeze before Charon shifted, bringing up a knee and resting his arm on it as he answered, “Old.”

Okay. Fair. And honestly more of an answer than he’d expected to get. There were days that Charon reminded him of the more broody detectives from the old novels that he’d used to read and crush on. All he needed to complete the image was a hat and a glass of whiskey since Charon already had the voice. Maybe a trench coat if you wanted to get cliche.

Shaking away the stupid thought, Lone glanced at his pipboy and was surprised to find that the day after tomorrow was going to be his birthday. He’d have been out in the wastes for one year. Strange how quickly the time passes but he supposed he should have known. After traveling with Crow there had been more than a few months at Agatha's. Spending the colder months tucked in her warm cottage laughing and playing his guitar like the world wasn’t a torn up hell. A surprisingly long time he’d very embarrassingly spent lost in the sewers. Then there had been more months wandering lost in the city he’d emerged in with towering buildings that stretched into the sky and terrified him to no end. Mostly that had been his hiding from mutants though… Then he’d had to take time to heal in Underworld-- where he’d let Snowflake cut his hair since it had been getting a little unmanageable with how long it was getting. 

It all passed so quickly outside of the vault. Was Amata okay? Were Andy and Stanley still arguing down in maintenance? Was Stan okay without Floyd and Lone to help?  ...how was dad, wherever he was? Should Lone look for him? ...probably not. Afterall, he’d never even bothered to say goodbye. Hell, knowing the wastes he was probably dead just like Lone would have been if Crow hadn’t found him.

Was Agatha okay? He heard her play on the radio sometimes. Using the earbud when he couldn’t sleep and they were in a safe enough space that he could risk the little pill shaped speakers that worked off bone conduction. For the first few months she’d said carefully worded praises and prayers that he was alright but… lately she didn’t speak much when he could get her station. Did she think him dead? ...was she dead? Nothing playing but old recordings?

Laughter in the distance as one of the old boarded up houses in the distance went up in a fresh bonfire had both of them stiffening and Treble woke to give a soft growl. “Might want to move on,” Charon said, already holding his shotgun as he stood and crushed the last of his cigarette beneath his heel.

Lone struggled up beside him, slinging his bag onto his shoulders along with his guitar that he’d wrapped in their bedroll to keep quiet. They slunk through the night, avoiding unseen things thanks to Treble’s early warnings and keeping to areas where they could easily hide. Only once did Charon switch to a knife. Fingers to his lips, they'd waited in the husk of a building as a drunk raider wandered over to piss. The raider didn’t have time to yell before their blood splattered across the peeling paint of the wall and they gurgled their last foul breath. 

Two caps, a hit of jet, and a crowbar. That was all that man’s life was worth. Raiders were horrible, but a part of Lone still wondered if killing them was necessary. True, raiders wouldn’t show mercy. Saving one life definitely didn’t mean they’d return the favor later but… 

Stepping over the corpse, Lone didn’t allow himself to continue the thought. In the wastes it was better not to think about it. Ever.

They walked until the sun came up. Nothing but gently rolling hills, dusty ground, and the occasional crumbling remains of buildings. Even the animals seemed rare in these forlorn parts, though they had definitely seen a creature Charon had called a yaoguai and it’s baby off in the distance during the wee hours of the morning. They came to a stop, resting beneath the boughs of a rotting old tree and Lone checking over the map on his pipboy when Charon said, “Best not to get lost here. Not enough water. ...where are we headed?”

Lone glanced down at his own water. He was running low. It was a surprise that Charon actually engaged him outside of his typical growls and he hoped that his surprise didn’t show too much as he answered  “Uhm, I figured we’d stop in Canterbury C--c--commons before going north. I’m looking for something in a vault.”

Charon gave him a flat look. “We passed Canterbury. Yesterday. It was to the west.”

“Oh. ...sorry.” Lone tugged his hat low as he sighed. They’d have to turn back in that case because it should have been to the  _ east _ and they were way off course. Of course that meant they’d have to travel back through raider territory again and if they found the body from last night… 

He could hear Charon take a deep breath before he came and sat beside him. 

“Can’t go back the way we came.” Charon said, already on the same thought. “Bring up your map.”

Lone held out his arm with the already open map on his pipboy and hoped that Charon didn’t mind him leaning on him for balance as the ghoul slowly navigated the touchscreen in search of something. It was a few awkward and tense minutes before Charon gestured at the location Lone had marked for the vault, “This where you want to head?”

Lone nodded. “Uhm. Yeah. I’m looking for something that should be there.”

Charon simply grunted, shifting the map on the pipboy as he leveled his typical scowl at Lone’s arm. 

Looking away, Lone tried to focus anywhere than on the ghoul’s face, thick arms, or muscled chest. He’d always had a bad habit of falling for the guys he worked near but it seemed almost ridiculous to start crushing on someone who was only near him because… he owned them. That fact still made his stomach roll but Greta and Carol had both tried to explain some of how the contract worked and Charon flat out refused to take it and ‘own’ himself.  He didn’t feel right ‘selling’ it though so now he was stuck with hiding the contract in a little compartment in his pipboy and just… 

Well he didn’t actually wish that Charon would leave or die even though that was the only way to end it. He did wish that Charon would travel with him because he  _ wanted _ to though. Lone huffed a sigh, staring at the dirt. The world was a very different place than his books had implied.

Charon let go of his arm; his expression sour as he leaned away. Probably he could smell Lone. He was, frankly, surprised that more people couldn’t.  “Sorry,” Lone muttered as he leaned back.

Charon cast him a glance and Lone peeked up enough to see a mixture of surprise on the ghoul’s face and that expression he typically wore when he was warring with asking a question. Eventually Charon must have decided it wasn’t worth asking as the ghoul turned away and lit a cigarette.

Turning away, Lone leaned back against the tree as he toyed with the fabric covering his guitar. Still probably too dangerous a place to play. He’d been composing a song recently though and his fingers itched to try and find more chords. It was, ironically enough, inspired by Charon’s name. In Underworld it had last been an exhibit on all the world’s vast views on the afterlife and Tulip had given him a book in exchange for some of the ones he’d had. Though Lone knew little to nothing about the cultures mentioned, he’d become very fond of one story in particular about how the souls had to be ferried  over the river styx by the cast-off son of a god named Charon.

Unable to work on the music, his brain must have decided that now was a good time to fall asleep because he found himself nodding off. He wasn’t sure how long he was asleep but he did however wake up with a startled grunt that Charon matched when Treble bumped him and he tipped into the ghoul’s lap. Any awkwardness was avoided though by the fact that his first view upon his eyes snapping open was to see that neverending and terrifying blue just beyond those sparse branches. 

Sometimes it surprised him how freaking big the world was. How there was a book that said there were  _ miles _ of air before it turned into where the stars were. That people used to fly up there-- going even so far as the stars themselves and that, yes, things could even float away though after a certain height they would come crashing down.

So lost in that blue he only barely registered Charon say something and only once the ghoul physically dragged him up and gave him a little shake did he snap out of it. He clung to the ghouls arms, trying to breath and blinking rapidly to hold back tears. 

“Kid. Snap out of it,” growled Charon, giving him another shake but it was gentler this time.

Purposefully focusing on the ground, Lone clung to Charon and tried to focus on all the little things. There was a rock digging into his knee. The ground was mostly just old dry grass. There was a stain on Charon’s knee that was dark like he’d had to kneel in blood. Maybe he had. Ahzrukhal had ordered him to do a few things back when he’d been working at the ninth and he didn’t doubt that Charon had did things that were beyond morally questionable of could lead to a bloodstain like that. 

Patient as always, Charon simply held still. Waiting. Eventually he was able to loosen his grip as he released the ghoul and leaned away with a soft mumble, “Sorry.”

Charon huffed. “Stop apologizing.” 

Almost on reflex Lone started to apologize again. He bit down on his tongue to stop, wringing his hands as he simply made a strangled whine for the part of the word that escaped. Staying on his hands and knees he crawled back to the base to the tree and leaned into it. He’d been doing well before this. He’d had only a few small panic sessions-- that he’d hoped he’d hid well enough-- since leaving Underworld and none of them had been that week. 

To his surprise, Charon sat back next to him and offered out both his flask and a cigarette without looking in Lones direction. “Need one?”

Lone had smoked only a few times in his life. Three times had been in the vault. Ironically, it had never been with Amata there to keep him from being a perfect little idiot. In fact, she’d never found out. No one had, really. He’d stolen the leftovers of Wally’s pack after a particularly nasty fight-- amazing what you could get into when you had the maintenance keys to the vault-- and he’d hidden them for ages before he’d smoked the first. Ultimately a doomed experience and he’d forced himself to power through the whole thing because he’d wanted to know what it was like for the people in his favorite detective novels.

He’d vomited for the rest of the evening and never felt more ill.

After that he’d been more careful and only once had he smoked since leaving the vault. They were nothing like the home-rolled vault plants but it was… oddly calming. With shaky fingers, he accepted Charon’s offering. At least with alcohol he was used to that. Nearly everyone homebrewed and swapped alcohol recipes down in the vault. 

Tipping the flask back he took a swig. It definitely wasn’t a vault brew. Hell, it tasted like it could be used to power a generator but he could feel the effect right off. He handed back the flask as he crossed his legs and dug in his pockets for his matches. Charon eyed him for a moment before holding up a lighter. 

“Thanks,” Lone mumbled around the cigarette as he tried to flick the lighter hard enough to get it to actually work. It hit the soft spot on his thumb where he didn’t have calluses and he struggled. Huffing again, Charon took it for him and lit it. Lone leaned back once it was lit and gave him a nod, hoping that he didn’t look as fucking pathetic as he felt. Still, he pulled up the hat that had fallen to hang from around his neck like the damn noose it really was. Even knowing the hat was there as pretend protection, that sky felt too close. Like those moments when you were trying to avoid a fight so you hunkered down and held your breath as the danger passed by, but this time he knew that the sky wouldn’t leave. It would stay there-- waiting.  

Charon lipped his own cig and leaned back, shoulder touching Lone’s. “You weren’t kidding.”

Lone huffed the smoke from his first breath as he leaned more against the ghoul. It didn’t matter what Charon thought. That little bit of comfort was badly needed and he just wanted something-- anything-- to feel safer for a moment as he stuttered, “Sss- st- st-ssstupid, huh?”

Taking his own swig from the flask, Charon grunted. 

It was a while before Lone felt really calmed enough to speak as he said, “Thanks.”

“For?”

“Holding me down?” Lone grimaced-- that sounded terrible. “I mean grounding me. K-kinda. ...for being there. I guess.”

Charon looked away with a grunt, the red tufts of his hair now all the Lone could see when he glanced towards the ghoul. Eventually Charon tilted his head enough to glance at Lone, his milky blue eyes meeting Lone’s for only a moment before returning to scanning the wastes-- ever vigilant-- and he said, “Yeah.”

Another glance.

Lone could tell that Charon was back to wanting to ask a question. Warring with himself or maybe whatever it was that made him follow his contract blindly. Lone focused on the cheery orange glow of his cig and the fingers that held it as he waited. His fingers had always had little scars in the past. Workin hands. The leather gloves for working the reactor were worn and old-- only used for the roughest jobs since they were generations old and not going to last much longer. It meant scratches and bandaged digits. Little pale scars.

When Charon stayed quiet, Lone flicked his cig with his thumb to get rid of the ash as he said, “You c-c-c-can ask-k you know.” 

He hated his stutter.  For years he’d worked to get over it. Made him seem soft spoken or too precise. Stiff. Formal. Really it was just a struggle to get the damn words out and since leaving the vault his stutter seemed to come up worse whenever he was rattled. Years of careful work erased in a matter of a few minutes. Charon didn’t seem to mind when he stumbled over the c’s like a toddler tripping over his own feet.

“I could,” rumbled Charon in his usual gravely deadpan. 

Perhaps it was an agreement. Or maybe it was an affirmation. Perhaps he was even just talking to himself. The ghoul didn’t do it often but Lone sometimes heard it on the rare days recently when Charon thought he was too lost in his music. Sometimes even very softly in his sleep. Mumbles really.

There wasn’t anymore conversation as they sat together in uneasy silence in a place that they hadn’t meant to stop for more than a couple moments. Not a safe location. Too easy for another sniper… or it would be if there was anyone besides strung out raiders who could barely hold baseball bats let alone guns. And dirt. And dead trees. And molerats.

Lone’s head tipped and he jerked back upwards. Exhaustion was nothing new in the wastes but he missed Underworld and Agatha. Missed having a ceiling over his head when he slept. Looking back though… he realized that he didn’t miss the vault. Not like he thought he would. There wasn’t anything there for him to miss now. Everyone besides Amata and Butch were dead and even then he had no way of knowing if they were alright. Hell, it’s not like Butch ever actually cared. Amata on the other hand… he wished she hadn’t stayed. 

Treble whined, laying beside him and maybe somehow knowing his thoughts. 

“We should move,” Charon eventually ground out. “Not safe here.”

Lone forced himself to his feet. A groan wanted to escape as his stiff legs complained but he kept his lips tightly together. Like any other bully he wasn’t going to let the wasteland have the satisfaction of winning. He grimaced, pulling his hat low as he tried to gauge which direction he was supposed to go.

“We head south. Couple miles. Swing west. Canterbury is past the far ridge but we’ll have to angle our approach.”

Lone didn’t dare look up at the ghoul-- too much sky and the ghoul was definitely tall enough that there was sky where his damn head was-- instead he fixed his gaze on Charon’s boots as he gave a nod. “Ok--k-ch--” He broke off as the sound lodged and he clenched a fist as he changed instead to a strained hum, “mhm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm not dead! Yet! Sorry that this has been so slow to update. Fun fact: I've had the first half of this sitting in my drafts for ages but I honestly didn't know where I was going with it. However, I've now got a plan and even an outline! (Go me! Very adult. Much wow.)


End file.
